


Your Sun

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Everybody Else Mentioned, Frottage, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everybody gets a second chance, and Fëanor and Fingolfin learn to make the most of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sun

**Author's Note:**

> There's some talk of burn scars in the fic (nothing too graphic).

When they lay in bed together, skin to skin under soft furs and lavender-scented linens, Fingolfin liked to recall how they had gotten there, the stumbling progression which led them, against all expectations, to witness the first rising of the sun from the narrow window of a bare stone room after a night spent in each other's arms. A complacent smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the memory. The Valar, who had fostered betrayal, would have been dismayed by the coincidence, had they known, and there was a keen sense of gratification in the thought.

It was mid-morning – he could tell by the sunbeam that fell across the scrolls cluttering the table, and glinted off the small mirror on the wall – and the day was cold, as was the norm in Himring throughout most of the year. He pulled the covers tighter around them, and drew Fëanor closer to himself, burying his face in his hair.

They had been unable to reconcile at first, upon meeting again thirty-seven years before, Fingolfin still benumbed by the horror of the crossing, and Fëanor barely able to stand upright to meet him face to face. They faced each other as enemies, but had little room to keep on wrangling with each other with orcs and balrogs attacking them almost every day. Morgoth had been sure to destroy them while they were weakened and divided. Their people had repelled the attacks, together, time and again, setting ill will and mistrust aside in order to survive. At length the attacks stopped, and they both agreed to take a step back. They abdicated, and surrendered their power to their children – and a good deal of their stubborn fixations with it. Fingolfin still believed that he should have been the one to rule, and that Fëanor should have had the grace to step aside, but it was undeniable that their sons had always managed to get along much better than the two of them, and that in spite of their fathers' rivalry and pride. They had been more readily inclined to collaborate even then, reaching over a breach that seemed irreparable. 

Thus the Ñoldor had now three High Kings, all with the same powers, and lived mingled once again, as they had before Morgoth had started growing the seeds of discords.

There had been some opposition of course, murmured complaints and less quiet protests, knots of rancour to loosen and severed ties to mend.

Fingon was a kinslayer, too, and some of Finarfin's closest retainers, while willing to support Fingolfin on account of his dependability and out of sheer necessity, wouldn't have wanted him as King. 

In turn, some of Fingolfin's followers claimed that Finrod didn't have more of a right to the crown than Fëanorians, given that his father had turned back, and forsaken them and their struggle.

Both parties agreed that Maedhros had no right to partake in the kingship. Maedhros assuaged their protests by circulating a story according to which he had stood aside at Losgar, after arguing with his father over the return of the ships.

Fingolfin could have laughed at the idea of Maedhros going against his father in any way. It spoke of how little the vast majority of the Ñoldor had known him in Aman, for such a circumstance to be even taken into consideration.

“Nelyo did want to send the ships back,” Fëanor said, following Fingolfin's chain of thought, while he let his frail body be enclosed by his younger brother's.

“But he didn't do anything to stop you and his brothers,” Fingolfin calmly retorted, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth pooling between them. Not that he supposed Maedhros could have done much on his own, but it didn't change the fact that he had ultimately been an accomplice too.

If the story had gradually gained acceptance, it was mostly thanks to Curufin's indignant glower and Maglor's openly displeased gaze whenever it was recounted (Fingolfin thought, - quite often - that if Curufin and Maglor had both chosen a career as professional actors instead of dabbling in politics, life would have been much easier for a lot of people), and the four other siblings' blustery tempers passing easily for confirmation of their oldest brother's unfaithfulness. 

Nonetheless, many among the lords demanded a public apology from Maedhros, if he wanted to be king of all, for not having done more to prevent the burning of the ships. Maedhros had graciously given it – words as fleeting as running water, and empty as the newly built hall in which his voice echoed – proudly lifting his once perfectly chiselled nose, crooked now after Celegorm had broken it when he punched Maedhros to prevent him from meeting Morgoth's envoys. The blow had been so hard that it had knocked Maedhros out more than long enough to allow Maglor to respond to the embassy with a trenchant two-word message, the deliverers of which had never come back. Maedhros had been so grateful that he had ordered the healers not to set his nose straight again.

The three Kings ruled in Hithlum, whereas Fingolfin and Fëanor had moved into the uninhabited east, and fortified the northern regions there. Fëanor's five younger sons, as well as Aredhel, who detested politics and was bound to be irked by the delicate atmosphere of lake Mithrim, had accompanied them.

Turgon hadn't taken well to the new arrangement, and the growing closeness he all too clearly perceived between his father and Fëanor when their arguments quieted down to sober exchanges, and they started sharing the routine of day to day life – and quarters. Turgon would have wanted to move out of Beleriand, where his father could found a kingdom of his own, and rule as he deserved, leaving Fëanor to carry on his foolhardy quest as he saw fit. He also attempted to dissuade Finrod from accepting the shared kingship. After that too failed, he founded a city in the westernmost promontory of Nevrast, with the help of his closest retainers and some discontent lords from other factions. He named it (challengingly) Vinyamar. If he still had contacts with his cousins and other elven populations alike, it was only thanks to Elenwë, who didn't want to be entirely cut off from the outside world, and often travelled inland for commerce or diplomatic ventures, taking Idril with her. Idril too had to get used to the intricacies of political coexistence - Fingolfin entirely agreed with his daughter-in-law on that count. 

Finrod had displaced his two brothers to the north, directly in front of Angband, partly to keep watch on Morgoth and partly to keep them away from possible strife, but Galadriel stayed with him. She was the highest ranking woman among the Ñoldor – no longer a granddaughter or a niece, but the High King's own sister, and close enough to him to influence his decisions, preceding both Lalwen and Curufin's wife. 

Mineth's presence in Hithlum was perhaps one of the most frowned upon aspects of the new arrangement. She was generally assumed to be an informer for her husband and father-in-law, charged with keeping an extra eye on the proceedings of the court. The assumption wasn't entirely false, but she had a much more meaningful purpose there. She, together with Celebrimbor, had been in charge of setting up defences against orc incursions, and (true) spies, and it would have been detrimental to the safety of the kingdom for the work to be interrupted, or handed over to somebody who didn't have half the knowledge of the terrain she had amassed. 

Fingolfin trusted Celebrimbor to be sensible enough, even if he himself had no great liking for his mother. He shifted on the bed, and tried to hug Fëanor even tighter, but grimaced when his chin came into contact with the sharply protruding bones of his left shoulder. Fingolfin's own body had been harshly dealt with by the freezing cold of the Helcaraxë and lack of food, but unlike Fëanor's it was back to its past vigour. Fëanor's body was still markedly debilitated, despite the many years elapsed since his battle with the balrogs, and would forever bear the marks of it – patches of withered skin that were leathery to the touch, and deep indentations where his flesh had been cut to the bone. 

If he was alive at all, it was thanks to his sons' headlong rescue, and the untiring expertise of the healers, who had toiled day and night to keep his many wounds clean and prevent dehydration, and then to graft his skin and patch his body back together so that he wouldn't be permanently incapacitated. Even so he had hovered between life and death for months, suffering constant searing pain. 

Fingolfin could now freely admit to be glad Fëanor's survival. He had thought his resentment could never be appeased after the Helcaraxë, even upon finding him a haggard, feeble convalescent. But the root of their enmity was a very personal one, and there, in a new land where old balances had ceased to signify, and ghosts tiptoed on uncharted territory, he became protective of his older brother in a way he would never have been in Aman. Their relationship was their own. Only he had the right demand requital. Fëanor had to be _his_. He hadn't crossed the Helcaraxë to be robbed of that right, and every time he beheld Fëanor's scars he was filled by a blinding rage at how Morgoth and the Valar and the Doom had interfered in their lives, and would still interfere if given a chance. 

He shifted again to kiss the shoulder, his left hand coming to rest against the middle of Fëanor's skinny chest. 

“You can fuck me,” Fëanor said, rubbing his own left hand over Fingolfin's.

Fingolfin ignored the crude invitation – though it was far less easy to ignore the upsurge of desire it elicited – and dropped small kisses all over the shoulder and up along the neck. 

“Your dick is poking my ass,” Fëanor persisted, “I can take it.”

“You can't,” Fingolfin dryly objected. “And even if you could, I'd still prefer to be careful.” 

Not three days before Fëanor had fainted while working in the forge with Curufin. Fingolfin had rarely been truly terrified in his life, but a stomach-churning dread had gripped him when he happened to meet Curufin's panic-frenzied gaze after the incident. Fëanor, who had become only marginally more cautious on account of his near death, didn't want to burden his sons more than he already had throughout his illness, whereas his sons would have gladly relieved him of all responsibilities, perfectly content with knowing that he was with them, and safe. Their devotion to him was zealous to the point of being disturbing. 

“I don't want your sons to worry. Curufinwë would kill me.”

“He wouldn't. He knows I don't want you dead...for now, at least.”

“That's comforting to know, but if something happened to you because of me...or if he simply _decided_ it was because of me, I'm quite positive he wouldn't think twice about getting rid of me in some inventive fashion.”

“You would let yourself be?” Fëanor taunted. “...I do want to have sex with you, in any case. Unless you prefer to spend this day of rest simply lying in bed.” He slowly turned in Fingolfin's arms, until they were face to face. For a while, they stared at each other unblinkingly, almost thoughtfully. They kissed without closing their eyes, both eager to see the other's reaction. 

_'This isn't forgiveness'_ , Fingolfin had said the first time they kissed, while still in Mithrim, on the night preceding their abdication and the first rising of the sun.

_'It's too nice to be'_ , Fëanor had countered.

Fingolfin pushed his left leg between Fëanor's own, to find him as aroused as he was. Fëanor's right hand settled on his shoulder blades, then glided down along his spine to his asscheeks, slapping them, and causing Fingolfin to jolt against him. 

Fingolfin grunted into the kiss. Fëanor had many ways to goad him, and none of them had ever been subtle. He pushed his tongue further into his mouth, and bit on his lower lip when he pulled back. He left the warmth of the bed for a moment, sitting up to take the ointment that was meant for Fëanor's scars, to keep them soft, but was diverted to other uses from time to time.

“Open your legs,” he commanded. “And stay still.”

Fëanor smiled smugly up at him and bucked his hips in defiance, before complying.

“Would you truly want me to be docile?” he asked, narrowing his eyes to return Fingolfin's reproving glare.

Fingolfin heaved a long-suffering sigh, but shook his head. He wouldn't have wanted a ghost of his half-brother.

He knelt astride Fëanor's left thigh and began smearing the zesty-smelling ointment over his chest, from his neck, feeling the stretched tendons and muscles as Fëanor threw his head back, over the pronounced ridge of his clavicles slowly to where the left nipple had been. The ugliest scars were all around the lower portion of his chest, and his sides. The skin there was a pitted expanse. Fingolfin left no part of it untouched, caressing and massaging it to his satisfaction. His hand then glided to Fëanor's cock, oiling it from tip to base, and lower still, fondling his balls and the crack of his ass.

Fëanor reflexively opened his legs more, welcoming the touch that now had the added warmth of familiarity to it.

Fingolfin set the ointment aside and shifted his stance, so that his right knee pushed against the inside of Fëanor's left thigh. He squeezed their cocks together with his right hand. The left he lay on Fëanor's stomach, partly to keep him from tossing too much, but also to keep touching as much of him as he could. His eyes were glued to Fëanor's face, unspared by the fire but not spoilt by it, and he stared as pleasure registered on it. Fëanor didn't hold back, unrestrained moans trickling between his thin lips with the same ardour angry words had once, while his own eyes widened and sparkled in response to the stimulation. Fingolfin stared, quickening the up-and-down motion of his hand then slowing it, intimately conscious of the value of those moments. 

He stopped, and bent to capture Fëanor's mouth into one more kiss. 

When he straightened again, he wrapped his other hand too around their erections, and began to buck his own hips. His breathing quickened. Fëanor's did too; he shivered, closed his eyes, and came.

It was those moments in which he was entirely given over to him – fugacious, sparse, but all the more thrilling for it – that crowned Fingolfin's contentment, and he fought his urge to follow until it was over, and he wouldn't miss a split second of it.

Fëanor slumped back, sated, reopened his eyes and smiled gently for once. He brought his hands down, uncurled Fingolfin's from around their cocks. He entwined his left with Fingolfin's right, and used the other to coax him to surrender in turn, and their seed to mix on his own chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm by no means expert on burn wounds (I only skimmed the Wikipedia page once and left it at that), but it's fair to assume that the damage Fëanor suffered during his fight with the balrogs was extensive, and that it would have left conspicuous traces if he had survived, and also that recovery would have been very very slow (considering the general nature of burn wounds, and the in-universe fact that Gandalf himself needs a reboot after fighting a single balrog).


End file.
